What You Deserve (Anything for Love, Book 3) (9 page)

“I have always found music soothes my soul,” he said in a rich tone. “Indeed, I am confident that once you find your rhythm, I shall be thoroughly entertained.”

A snigger burst from her lips. It felt wonderful to laugh again.

His eyes sparkled like the sun’s reflection on water. When he laughed she knew it to be genuine for his smile illuminated his face. In that moment, he was just as she remembered. The faint creases around his mouth, and the bronzed tint to his skin proved to be the only evidence that any time had passed.

“Do you remember the day you chased me around the fountain, and you slipped and fell in.” She chuckled again at the memory. His coat had clung to his muscular arms; his boots squelched when he walked. “I laughed until it hurt. An hour passed before I could breathe properly again.”

He nodded. “I remember. I wanted to scoop you up in my arms until you were soaked through, too.”

“You did? Why … why didn’t you?”

He contemplated her question. “I suppose I wanted you to think me a gentleman.”

His answer surprised her. She’d always thought him respectful, considerate. That was until he abandoned her. Even now, that decision still seemed so completely out of character.

“Well, only a gentleman would give up his time to save a damsel in distress,” she said choosing to show her gratitude for his intervention instead of dwelling on the past. “Only a gentleman would listen to stories of ghosts and phantoms without declaring me insane.”

His arms fell to his side as he straightened. “We will find a plausible explanation for the strange events here.”

“Then let us begin our investigation this instant.” She turned, closed her chamber door and gestured for him to follow her along the landing. “I thought it best to start with a tour of the house unless you have other ideas.”

“I have spoken to Jacob. He informed me that a Mr. Blackwood is employed to manage the estate. With your permission, I would like to speak to him.” He stopped and turned to face her. “If I am to help you, I need you to tell me everything,” he whispered.

Isabella swallowed. “Everything?”

“Everything involving your personal situation.” He coughed into his clenched fist. “If I am to attempt to discover a motive for murder, then I must know what financial arrangements were made for you upon your husband’s death.”

“A motive for murder,” she repeated. He sounded so confident in his ability to succeed. It brought to mind an earlier comment. He had not spent his time in France in pursuit of pleasure, but in catching criminals.

“You will need to be completely honest with me,” he said, averting his gaze to glance at the floor. “There can be no secrets between us.”

Being honest with him had never posed a problem for her. “What do you want to know?”

He paused, swallowed audibly. “The nature of your relationship with your husband. Details of his relationship with his son. Who owns Highley Grange? Why it is Henry Fernall maintains control? Can you trust the staff here?”

“Goodness.” She placed her hand to her chest. “Why did you not just say you wanted to know every intimate detail of my life. I am surprised you’ve not asked if I have a lover.”

The comment was made in jest, purely to express her shock at the depth of information required.

His expression darkened. “Do you have a lover, Isabella?” His penetrating stare made her shift uncomfortably. “Your husband has been dead these last two years. It would be a natural assumption for anyone to make.”

She had only ever had one lover. There had only ever been one man who made her body ache at the thought of joining with him. Of course, she had given herself to her husband on numerous occasions. But that was not love. It amounted to nothing more than one’s duty.

Straightening her spine, she decided it was best to be blunt. “You are the only man I would class as such. A lover is someone who rouses an ardent passion, someone with whom you share a deep emotional connection.” She flicked her hair in an act of disgruntlement. “So no, Tristan. Whilst I did my duty by my husband, other than you, there has been no one else.”

He pushed his hand through his slightly damp locks, rubbed back and forth as though the motion would ease the tense expression on his face. “What … what happened between us … you must know that it meant something to me.”

“Did it?” Her tone carried a hint of reproof. He wanted honesty, and she would give it to him. “How would I know that?”

Pain flashed briefly in his eyes. “We were in love. It was inevitable we would find a way to express all we felt, all we meant to one another.”

Did he not know that his words cut her to the bone? To remind her of what she had lost was akin to torture.

Thankfully, Mrs. Birch appeared at the top of the stairs. She cleared her throat and offered a curtsy. “I’ve prepared a light repast, my lady, a broth to warm up your bones. It’s always wise to have a hot meal when caught out in weather such as this.”

Isabella forced a smile. It took a moment for her to focus on forming a response. While her body was in the present, her mind lingered in the past. “Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Birch. We will be right down.”

Mrs. Birch nodded and made a hasty retreat.

“Come. Let us go and eat.” He waved his hand for her to lead the way. “We can continue our discussion downstairs, though there are certain questions you should not answer unless we can ensure absolute privacy.”

He sounded serious, so sober. She preferred his tone playful, teasing, brimming with amusement. Though they remained silent as they made their way to the dining room, she sensed a heavy pressure in the air that suggested he was deep in thought.

They chose to sit at the far end of the table, in the seats closest to the fire. Other than passing pleasantries (a mutual admiration for the landscape painting that hung above the fireplace, their predictions of how long it would be before the rain stopped) they ate their meal in silence. She watched him from beneath hooded lids, noted the lock of golden hair that fell to cover his brow, averted her gaze whenever he looked up.

“You said you wanted to know who owns Highley Grange.” She could not continue to stare at him without saying something. “What made you think that I do not?”

He used his napkin to dab at the corners of his mouth. “It is something Jacob said.”

“Jacob? What … what did he say?”

“I spoke to him briefly when I rode round to the stable. As I said, he mentioned that Mr. Blackwood manages the estate. That it is Henry Fernall who pays the servants’ wages.” He paused. “How do you find Mr. Blackwood?”

“Mr. Blackwood?” She rarely saw the man. “He is hardly ever about when I am in residence.”

During the rare occasions when their paths did happen to cross, he struggled to hold her gaze. Not that she was complaining. His thick eyebrows gave his face a wild, almost feral appearance that made the hairs at her nape stand on end.

“Does that not strike you as odd? Surely there are matters of estate business that require some communication.”

She shrugged. “Henry keeps him busy.”

“As the heir, it is reasonable to expect Henry to oversee things. But something tells me his interest in Highley Grange stems from more than a need to be helpful.”

“Henry owns Highley Grange.” And oh, how he enjoyed reminding her of the fact. “He is responsible for everything. As per the stipulations of my husband’s will, I am permitted to live here until I remarry or until I meet my demise.”

Tristan’s eyes widened. “Why did you not mention it before? Perhaps Henry wants rid of you. It gives him motive.”

“Perhaps it gives him a motive to frighten me but not to murder his own father.”

“Shush. Keep your voice low.” Tristan glanced at the open door. “I assume you have been provided for financially.”

“I have a small allowance.” She was not frivolous, and so it was adequate for her tastes. “I’m told circumstances would have been different if I’d had a child.”

He sat back and closed his eyes briefly. “Has there ever been a child?”

It took a moment for her to comprehend his meaning. “No. Thankfully, I have never had to deal with such a terrible loss.” Still, she felt the dull ache in her chest at the thought of never being a mother.

“But you were married for three years.”

The snigger of contempt was louder than she anticipated. “It takes a little more than marriage to produce a child.”

“I know that. Are you telling me you rarely …” He waved his hand as a means of conveying the word he struggled to say.

“Yes. Rarely is the appropriate term.”

He searched her face, his gaze falling to her neck, slightly lower. “Was Lord Fernall blind or simply stupid?”

The indirect compliment caused a warm glow to flow through her. It felt as though someone had wrapped her cold and aching limbs in a blanket of soft, fluffy down. Though she tried to suppress it, the corners of her mouth curled into a smile.

“We were unsuited. I suppose he hoped that taking a younger bride would solve the little problem he had.” Samuel Fernall’s preferences in the bedchamber beggared belief. “Well, I speak of the problem he had when trying to perform under normal circumstances.”

Tristan’s quizzical stare turned menacing. “Please tell me he did not hurt you.”

Various images forced their way into her mind: the times Samuel begged her to pleasure herself whilst he watched from the shadows. His puffy, red face swollen in anger as the insults burst cruelly from his lips. Like an annoying fly, she could not quite bat the visions away. Had her heart been whole, had her confidence not been left in tatters, Samuel would have hurt her terribly.

“I was immune to his cutting remarks. I was immune to the humiliation any wife would have felt upon discovering her husband kept a house purely for his sordid little parties.”

Tristan glanced around the room. The frown marring his brow convinced her that he was perhaps more perceptive than she thought.

“Am I correct to assume you speak of this house?”

She swallowed another spoonful of broth and nodded. “I suspect he meant to torment me for his many failings. It is strange how men blame their own inadequacies on their wives. In forcing me to live here, he is still able to punish me even from beyond the grave.”

A tense silence filled the room.

After what felt like an eternity, Tristan stood abruptly. “Come. I believe the rain has stopped,” he said glancing out of the window. “Let us take a walk as we are both in need of some air.”

“That is an excellent idea. There is something about this house I find quite suffocating.” She forced a smile. She needed a little light relief after the pressure of such heavy scrutiny. “I will give you a tour of the gardens. It will do us good to stretch our legs. And now we have warmed our bones I doubt we will be in danger of catching a chill.”

His curious gaze scanned her plain grey dress. “I will wait while you fetch your jacket.”

“I shall be fine in this,” she said tugging at her sleeve. “The material is far too thick for this time of year.”

She noticed his raised brow and knew another question was about to fall from his lips.

“I cannot help but notice you seem to prefer dressing in black or grey. The mourning period for your husband passed long ago. Does your subdued attire stem out of respect for Andrew?”

The question came as no surprise. He knew she once favoured bright colours: yellow ribbon on her bonnet, bright pink rosebuds embroidered on her shawl. She often made him wait while she picked vibrant flowers to fill the vase in her bedchamber.

“I do miss Andrew, but no. Over the years I suppose I grew accustomed to the drab colour.” She did not want him to know that, since their separation, she could not bear anything that reminded her of their time together. “And it is so easy to coordinate on a budget,” she added with a hint of amusement as he followed her into the drawing room and out through the doors leading to a small terrace.

He smiled at her last comment. “When we have found a plausible explanation for the strange happenings in the house, perhaps you should accompany me on a shopping expedition. We shall find material for a dress, something bold, something striking in a hue of rich golden yellow.”

It took every ounce of strength she had to hold the tears at bay. A year after Tristan had left, and in an act of defiance, she’d had a gown made in daffodil yellow. Although try as she might, she could not wear it. “I would like that,” she said, though her throat felt tight and it proved difficult to swallow.

They spent a few hours strolling in the garden. The sun made an appearance, the brilliant rays working to soothe away any tension. As they meandered through the avenues of sculptured topiary, he told her of the changes he wanted to make to the gardens at Kempston Hall.

“During my time at the monastery, I often spent time in the garth. With walls on every side, it forces you to stare up at the sky. The longer I sat there, the more my soul felt lighter, free.”

“So you would not plant shrubs?”

“No. I would do nothing to distract the eye.”

She led him to the walled garden, agreed that the roses did indeed draw one’s attention away from the vast blue canopy above. He persuaded her to pick the flowers from the beds, to be arranged in a crystal vase and placed in her room. They laughed over silly things, walked in companionable silence.